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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24022393">New slang</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/caricari/pseuds/caricari'>caricari</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>And the promise of brunch, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Love Confessions, M/M, Soft Crowley (Good Omens), There is no plot, just so much fluff, only fluff</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 00:47:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,992</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24022393</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/caricari/pseuds/caricari</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley wakes up before his alarm goes off, in July. Aziraphale explains why he said no to a visit during lockdown.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale &amp; Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>293</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>New slang</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>OH LOOK, it's another fic based on 'Lockdown'. Who could have expected such a thing. Quelle surprise. </p><p>Stay safe, guys. All my best.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <em> <span class="s2">Sometime near the end of June...</span> </em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">He wakes gently, with a warmth like sunlight creeping across his skin. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">He’s wrapped up bed - a tangled mess of limbs and sheets - pillows wedged under one arm and around his head. He's comfortable. Replete. </span>
  <span class="s2">At first, he can’t figure out what’s woken him. Then, there’s another brush of that distant warmth. Sunlight on skin, he thinks and familiarity tugs. Recognition rises, bringing with it the memories of a lilting voice and familiar scent - of cologne and soap, and the fabric conditioner the angel uses, to wash his shirts. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">Crowley cracks an eyelid, peers around. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">The bedroom is painted in shifting shapes of grey and blue. Sunlight dapples a nearby wall, lighting the specks of dust hanging on front of the window. Everything appears exactly the same as the demon left it, when he slipped into bed, however-many days ago. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">A trailing plant hangs, in the corner, not daring to have wilted. A glass of water sits, untouched, on the bedside table. The soft blanket that usually hangs over the end of the bed, is pulled up, around his waist. He must have been cold at some point, but he’s not cold, now. He feels warm. Comfortable. Calm, in that safe way that means Aziraphale is nearby. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Good morning,” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">The angel’s voice sounds, over to his left. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">Squirming over, Crowley looks up and finds his friend standing at the far side of the bed, hands folded in front of him, nervous smile in place. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Bloody Hell…” he squints, grumbling - because he’s not sure what else to do with an angel in his bedroom. He’s only had one in there once or twice, and he’d always been conscious throughout the whole process. Waking up to Aziraphale is new. “What the Heaven?” Crowley rubs a hand over his face. His vision is blurry from sleep. Everything is moving very slowly, inside his mind. “You alright? Everything okay?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Oh, yes. Absolutely fine. Don’t worry yourself, dear boy.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Right…” Crowley arches his back, feeling the stretch pull at his liquid muscles, his sleep-stiff joints. “What are you doing here?” He blinks and his vision finally clears. He squints around, finding the alarm clock on the bedside table. The small numbers tell him that today is fourteen days before it is set it to go off, and the time is eleven in the morning. He looks back over, at Aziraphale. “I thought we were all supposed to be staying in.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">The angel gives a little wriggle. He’s beaming, in that slightly manic way which Crowley associates with nerves. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Well, as it turns out, lockdown is finally over. So, we’re all free to go about as we please, now. Isn’t that wonderful?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">Crowley yawns. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Yeah… Wonderful.” Another second yawn catches the first. He gives his head a little shake. “Ugh. So, how long’s it been over for?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Oh, about two hours, now.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">The demon feels a little squirm, deep in the pit of his belly. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2"> <em>You didn’t waste much time…</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Well, nice of you to pop over and tell me,” he says, stretching one leg out experimentally.The air beyond the covers is pleasantly warm. “Did you get a taxi, or just-,” he mimes snapping. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Oh,” Aziraphale shifts on the spot, fiddles with the front of his waistcoat. “No. I walked, actually. Maintaining appropriate social distance at all times, of course.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Of course.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">Their eyes meet and Crowley’s insides give another little squirm. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">Under normal circumstances, he’d tease Aziraphale something dreadful about ‘<em>maintaining appropriate social distance</em>’, but he holds back, this morning. This is the first time they’ve seen one another in four months. They’ve not spoken in two. The last time they did, Aziraphale had apologetically turned down Crowley’s offer to spend the rest of lockdown together, holed up in the bookshop. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">The demon hadn’t been surprised, but he had been a bit disappointed. And he’d like to be doing a good impression of being a bit miffed, now. The only problem was, he keeps getting distracted by how pleased he is to see the angel.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“You can sit down, you know,” he tells Aziraphale, glancing at the far side of the bed. “No need to hover.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">The angel fusses, then agrees, taking up prim residence on the edge of the mattress. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“So, what’s been going on? What have I missed?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Oh, just bits and pieces.” Crowley's friend folds his hands in his lap. “The young chaps across the road have painted their shopfront orange, to be cheerful, and the rest of the street is in uproar. I’ve been down to the corner shop to see Audrey and the children, and they seem to be coping. Couldn’t pop in for tea, of course - social distancing - but it was nice to catch up. Young Adam called to tell me that Pepper broke her leg, falling off her bike. And…” Aziraphale frowns, searching for anything else he’d gleaned of the world since coming out of seclusion. “Oh, yes, and there was a little car accident, on Dean street. Some gentlemen were being chased by the police and overshot the corner. Drove right into the post box. Would you believe it?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Sounds like an action-packed two months.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Yes, it has been. Goodness... has it really been two months?” Aziraphale fiddles with this thumbnail, throws a somewhat anxious look over at him. “How time flies..."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“It's almost July.” Crowley glances again at the alarm clock. “Only a couple of weeks until I was planning to wake up.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Yes,” Aziraphale eyes him, apologetically. “I probably should have left you to it, but I thought you might have forgotten to set the alarm, or perhaps set it for the wrong year, or something. You do sleep so deeply, my dear.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">"Like a log. Or a dead...” Crowley yawns, once again. “...something. Ngh…” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">They sit, watching one another. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">The demon can feel apprehension growing, in Aziraphale. It is clear, from the angel's body language, that he’s dithering over saying something and Crowley is fairly sure what topic he wants to address. If he were any more awake, the demon would have come up with something clever and sarcastic, to diffuse the tension - to let the angel know that they didn’t need to talk about this - but his brain is sluggish and he’s still trying to unpick himself from his tangled sheets. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Crowley.” Aziraphale pulls a face and shuffles forwards. “My dear, I wanted to say that I am very sorry, about not inviting you over, the other week.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Wh-,” the demon squints at him. “Don’t be ridiculous, angel. I would have driven you mad, cooped up there for six weeks.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“It’s just that… I have rather a thing about rules, if you must know.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2"> <em>Don’t you just. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Even if it’s only human rules,” Aziraphale chances a look up at him. “It makes me terribly nervous, the idea of breaking them. There’s all this expectation, you see? About what I’m supposed to do and what i’m supposed to be. And I know that it’s silly, really, but I suppose it comes from all of those years worrying about Heaven’s rules - meeting Heaven’s expectations - and there are a whole host of things there, all bundled up together, in my head. And, sometimes, it can be a bit much. And I do wish I could just snap out of it and react a little better, to these things. And I do try. But I’ve always been this way. And-,”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Angel.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">The word stalls Aziraphale’s tirade. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">The angel looks over, eyes wide and apologetic. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">Crowley gives a little shake of his head.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">"Don't worry about it."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">Now that his friend is here - that this is actually happening - he is suddenly, absolutely sure that he doesn’t need an apology. He doesn't need Aziraphale’s worried little frown, or the way his hands are twisting over one another, in his lap. He doesn’t want to hear the self-deprecating sharpness, in his voice. He wants Aziraphale to be sitting comfortably, somewhere, instead. With a glass of something drinkable. Plus or minus cake. Relaxed and safe, and secure.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“It’s fine,” he mumbles, giving a little shrug. “Honestly. It's fine.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“It was terribly rude.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“It wasn’t. Don’t fuss.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“It was, Crowley.” Aziraphale looks down, gives a little distressed sigh. “You’re my friend and I shouldn’t make you wait.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Don’t be daft.” Despite himself, a little smile is pulling at Crowley’s lips. Because the whole thing is just <em>so</em> Aziraphale and he’s so incredibly glad to see him. It’s been too long - even for a sleeping demon. “It’s all right. No harm done. It’s just you, isn’t it?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">Aziraphale looks up, frowns. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Just me?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Yeah.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">Crowley blinks at his friend, a little surprised that he's not feeling a rush of nerves. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">Talking about emotions has never been his strongest suit. He spent the first few centuries of his earthy existence convinced that he wasn’t even supposed to <em>have</em> feelings, and that something must have gone wrong, in the making of him. He has always considered it to be a bit of a failing, for a demon - to be able to get attached. And talking about it has always seemed like a daunting prospect. But not today, it seems. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“You know how you are…” he murmurs, at Aziraphale.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2"> <em>A bit old fashioned. Slow to pick up on new slang and at least two centuries behind, on music. Dressed in clothes that went out of fashion before they were tailored and completely set in your ways… </em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“You take an hour to get ready for dinner when you could just snap your fingers.” He shrugs, feels warmth draw at the inside of his ribs - still mysteriously unaccompanied by fear. “You make me wait, sometimes. It’s just a thing.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">Aziraphale’s brow creases. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“...I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Aziraphale," Crowley’s smile grows, settling firmly into his cheeks. “I’m a demon who sleeps for months at a time, to skip the in-between parts of life. Don’t you ever think that - maybe - there’s reason we fell in together?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“What do you mean?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“I don’t mind waiting, you idiot. I get it. You’ve just got, you know… <em>angel,</em> stuff going on, in there,” he motions towards Aziraphale’s head. “And that’s okay. I know you’ll figure it all out, eventually. So," he shrugs, "it’s not a big deal. I can wait.” He tilts his head, re-capturing Aziraphale’s gaze. “Listen - I’ve not fucked off yet, have I? And we’ve known one another a while, now.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Sixty centuries," the angel murmurs</span>
  <span class="s2">. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Sixty cen-, oh, come on, now. Say it like you mean it. Give it the respect it deserves! Six thousand years. Six <em>thouuusand</em> years.” He tilts his chin back, hams up the voice for dramatic effect - the movement drawing a little smile from the angel’s lips. “S’a bloody long time.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Yes.” Aziraphale chances a glance up at him, then down at the duvet cover again. He plucks at the silk, then smooths it flat again, with his fingertips. “It is, really.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Yeah…” Something shifts, in the conversation. Crowley feels the tone slide towards something serious. He doesn’t intend for it. It just feels right, in the moment. “I’m not going anywhere, Aziraphale. You can take your time.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">A very shy smile pulls at the angel’s lips. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Right.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“I mean,” the tone slides again - a gentle push, back towards levity. “Within reason. Telling me to bugger off for a few thousand years would be seriously sub-optimal.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">Aziraphale laughs, little lines appearing in the crinkled corners of his eyes. He continues to watch his fingers for a while, playing with the bedspread. Then, eventually, he looks up and meets Crowley’s eyes. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Thank you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">It’s a strange little moment - an acknowledgement of something that they’ve rarely allowed themselves, in the past. But they can do this now, Crowley thinks. Because time is tripping on, again, and the world isn’t ending. It is July, and the world isn’t ending. They are free and on their own side. And Crowley is feeling hopeful. He’s always been an irritatingly optimistic demon, even at the worst of times, but he’s feeling particularly hopeful this year. This year might be the start of something new. He’s almost sure of it. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Fancy grabbing a drink somewhere, since I’m up?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">Aziraphale gives an affected little roll of the eyes. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Crowley - it’s eleven o’ clock in the morning!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">Warmth pulls at Crowley again. The fake outrage is perfectly done. Almost as perfect as the vulnerable, honest expression of a few seconds before - that grateful little look from beneath blonde lashes. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Alright. Well, lunch, then?” He suggests. “Or breakfast? Or…” Frowning, he cranes his neck to look over at the illuminated numbers of the alarm clock. “What wold be appropriate? Tea? Elevensies? Linner? Snack? Brunch?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">His angel laughs - the noise escaping him in a helpless little rush of mirth - in a way that makes Crowley feel even more optimistic. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">Yes. It’s going to be a good year. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Brunch sounds ideal.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Alright, then. What’s open, these days? Do restaurants exist, anymore? Or do we now eat from a great amorphous government-funded trough?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Restaurants exist. Most of our usual places have pulled through, actually.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Miraculous, that.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“I’ve had nothing to do with it!” The angel puffs, a little indignantly. “It’s all down to human ingenuity. They really are very good at managing themselves, you know - adapting, to fit the times. All the little cafes in the area have had staff out, delivering food, for the past few weeks - isn’t that brilliant?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">Crowley grins.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Very good.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Yes. And they’re taking all payments on these clever little machines that you can just tap. No cash involved. It’s really rather ingenious. And all off their own back! Well, almost...” His cheeks pink, slightly. “The electricity board may have lost track of some payments for a few months, back in April when they were having a bit of trouble, but that’s neither here nor there. Paperwork is a horror to keep track of and it has been a difficult season…” He makes a prim little adjustment, pulling at the hem of his waistcoat. “It seemed a shame to deny the neighbourhood those wonderful jam tarts, in a time of national crisis.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Mm.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“It was for morale.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Of course it was.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Yes.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“I love you.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">Aziraphale blinks. His mouth falls open. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“I… you… what?” He breathes, after ten whole seconds of stunned silence.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“There’s no need to be dramatic about it.” Crowley stares back. For some completely confounding reason, he’s still feeling calm. Maybe his amygdala isn’t functioning, after nearly two months of unconsciousness. Or maybe, he thinks, it’s just the right time to start saying those things out loud - to use the right words, rather than the euphemisms which have carried them through the past six thousand years. “It’s not like you didn’t already know,” he tells the angel, a bit gruffly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">Aziraphale blinks at him, his expression half excited and half terrified. His eyes are suddenly a little wet. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">Crowley tries to ignore this last part. He’s always been an empathetic crier.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Anyway, there’s no rule about not saying that sort of stuff, on our side, is there?” He shrugs. (There have been no rules agreed upon at all, actually. Crowley is making this up as he goes along - but what the hell point is there, to having your own side, unless you are able to make up policy decisions, on the spot?) “So, it’s not a big deal. We can say those sorts of things, now, if we want to.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">And, finally, the rush of anxiety does come. A tightening in the demon’s belly - a swooping sensation, that crawls up the back of his throat, resemblant of choking. Because the next part’s not on him. He has to wait, now, for an answer. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">Aziraphale stares. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">His lips part slightly. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">And then, finally;</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Yes. I suppose we can.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">And the choking, panicky feeling releases, because th</span>
  <span class="s2">e angel is not going to run. He is not going to deny all association. He has not pushed Crowley away or told him he’s going to fast. Instead, his shoulders have relaxed and his expression eased. And he’s staring at the demon as if he is something new, and wonderful. And Crowley feels fear slide away. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">A few seconds pass, and rather more than a few heartbeats. Then, Aziraphale gives a shaky little sigh. </span>
  <span class="s2">His mouth curls into a shy smile. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“I love you too, Crowley. Very much.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">The demon releases a breath he hadn’t realised he had been holding. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Right… well…” he’s not sure what to say, now. He wasn’t really prepared for this - didn’t really have a plan. But that’s not the end of the world, he thinks. The end of the world involves four men on horses and a lot of aggro. This is the bit that comes after the end. This is the life that keeps on going. This is his future, if he wants it, if he's brave enough to take it. “I kind of knew,” he tells the angel, managing to force some semblance of normal voice from amidst the breathlessness. “S’not as if you go bursting in on other demons, bothering them out of sleep, is it?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">The corner of his friend’s mouth twitches. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“No. I don’t.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Yeah, well… alright, then.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">They stare at one another a long few seconds. Then, normality slowly returns, absorbing the emotion of the moment. Wrapping around it. Smoothing the edges. Making a new normal, Crowley thinks, feeling his cheeks burn with an embarrassment that’s not entirely unpleasant. A normal where they can say these things - if they want to. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Right.” He clears his throat. “Come on,” he sits up, feeling suddenly more awake. There is potential in the coming afternoon. And endless potential in the year that stretches out, after it. Crowley suspects he won’t be sleeping for any month-long stretches for a long time. There is life to explore, first. “What sort of brunch are you after?” He asks the angel. “Breakfast-type brunch, or lunch-type brunch?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Isn’t the point of brunch that it is something in-between?” The angel replies, a little weakly. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Yeah… but you still have to choose. You can’t just go flaming mad and start ordering pancakes with beans on top. Or…” he searches his brain for words, “pickles dipped in orange juice.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">Aziraphale smiles, dazedly. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“I’m absolutely sure those are both things that happen, somewhere in the world.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Probably America. Anything goes, over there.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Yes, probably.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Most of your favourite places are specialists, though,” the demon points out. “Like that one that only does eggs. And the other one that only has really tiny pastries?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Yes, I suppose.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“So, it’s either breakfast-type brunch, or lunch-type brunch. I was right.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“I suppose.” A smile is pulling one side of Aziraphale’s mouth more than the other - a tiny hint of the bastard that he’d be, with that comment, if Crowley hadn’t just nearly given him a heart attack. “As per usual.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Piss off…” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">But Crowley is smiling, too. Because this is not a bad way to start the morning, or the month. He has his best friend in his bed, sitting in the safe space of his home. And there are no alarm bells going off. Nobody is racing in, to confront them, to drag them apart, or punish them. Because time has moved on and the end didn’t happen. Life is continuing and there are whole new avenues to explore, now that they can say these things out loud. New slang to learn. New possibilities, in the spaces between the words. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Well, then. Lunch brunch or breakfast brunch?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Oh…” Aziraphale gives a little sigh. “I suppose breakfast is more appropriate, really. You have just woken up.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">"Don't decide on my account,” the demon grumbles, pushing at his covers as he tries to extricate his legs. “Was only going to order a drink...”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Crowley! It’s not even lunchtime.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“It’s five o’ clock somewhere.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Everyone will look.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Well, I am supposed to be setting a bad example.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Crowley!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“I was only going to have a mimosa. Wasn’t about to dive straight in with bourbon…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Cr-,”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Alright, alright…” he works up a little frown - a specious pretence of irritation. “I’ll have a coffee or something. You’ll owe me a drink, though. And I’m collecting next week, at the latest.” His heart rate gives a little jump - a little rush of blood flooding to his cheeks, as his system wakes up and clocks the fact that he’s about to go fishing, for a date. “Maybe that new place I wanted to try. You know, the one with the roof garden and all the ferns? Should be warm enough, now that it’s June…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2"><em>Too much, too much, too much</em>, his brain hisses. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">But the angel’s eyes only twinkle. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“I suppose that could be arranged.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Cool.” He breathes out, lets his heart rate slow again. “Well, it’s a deal, then. I'll get dressed.” They stare at one another for five seconds. Then Crowley gathers himself. “I’m not wearing anything under these pyjamas,” he tells the angel. “So I’d sod off, if you’re not here for an eyeful.”</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s2">A blush threads its way up the angel’s cheeks and he throws Crowley a reproachful look. His eyes perform a dip, down to the shadow of the demon’s collarbones, however - telling Crowley that he’s not nearly as flustered by the concept as he is pretending to be. </span>Food for thought, thinks the demon. </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Take all the time you need," Aziraphale says. "I’ll wait in the kitchen.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Right.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">Standing, Aziraphale picks his way back across the room, throwing a smile back at Crowley before he slips out into the hall. He leaves the door ajar, slightly. A not-separation between himself and Crowley naked. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>
    <span class="s2">Definitely food for thought.</span>
  </em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">Crowley pull himself free of his pyjama top, listening to Aziraphale pad down the hall and around the kitchen. He listens to his friend potter quite contentedly, as he swings his legs out of bed and stretches the sleep from his body. Then, he hears the angel's footsteps head on, towards the plant room, and a frown creases his forehead.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Hey," he shouts. “Don’t go talking to them!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Hmm?” comes the distant echo of his friend’s reply. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“I said don’t-,” the demon curses as he trips on discarded pyjama bottoms. Kicking them away, across the floor, he snaps his fingers and finds himself showered and dressed. He doesn’t bother with picking up the pyjamas. Order can resume when he gets back, this evening. For now, he has an angel to take to brunch. “I said, don’t go saying nice things to the plants,” he shouts, in the direction of the hall. “They were intolerable after the last time you were over. Flowering all over the place. Pollen everywhere. I was dosed up on antihistamines for a week!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“I can’t hear you, dear boy…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">He definitely can. His voice had carried back through, to the bedroom, as clear as day.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">Muttering darkly, Crowley runs fingers through his hair, forcing it into casual disorder. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Just... stay away from the aspidistra!” He warns, tugging his watch straps closed around his wrist. “I have it-,” he grabs a bottle from the dresser and anoints himself with a spray of cologne, “-exactly where I want it!</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Oh, yes. It is rather vibrant. You’ve done a marvellous job, Crowley.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Aziraphale - fucking stop it! Stop i-, ugh! For Satan’s sake…” He shoves his wallet into his back pocket.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“What beautiful leaves…”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">“Angel!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">One shoe on, and the other in his hand, he trips out the door, after his friend.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">The plants are intolerable for the next two weeks. Crowley has to move them to a greenhouse on the newly installed balcony to cope. And, though he gripes about it terribly, he can’t quite find it in his heart to blame them. He supposes its hard not to flower all over the place when there’s an angel popping in, for tea, every few days. Even a demon could get a bit dizzy, with that sort of attention.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s2">.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Find me lurking on <a href="https://www.instagram.com/heycaricari/">IG</a>, <a href="https://twitter.com/heycaricari">Twitter</a>, and <a href="https://heycaricari.tumblr.com/">Tumblr</a> @heycaricari</p></blockquote></div></div>
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